In the Grove

Beneath the grove of willow trees
sheltered from the August swell
where the suck and melt
dare not follow, I lay nestled
in a bed of clover gazing upon
the canopy of sleepy branches.
Cooled by the earth and the rustling,
damp breeze which caused the longest
leaves to dance and sway above me,
I was pulled into a deep rest.

 
Feeling as if my lungs spread out like roots
beneath me, stretching out
below the golden green umbrella.
Palms turned toward the sky
as dappled sunlight tickle
my skin. The pulse slowed and
worry and pain became mulch for the
alfalfa. And the truth was laid bare,
as if time had forgotten us there
in the grove